


eat you up whole

by callunavulgari



Series: Dark Month Collection [63]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mildly Dubious Consent, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 07:55:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20926769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callunavulgari/pseuds/callunavulgari
Summary: “How many mouthfuls do you think I could take from you before it had some effect?” Regis whispers, lips against his throat. Geralt can feel the pinprick of fangs. “Four? Six? Ten? More, even?”“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Geralt murmurs, and Regis laughs.“I would,” he agrees.





	eat you up whole

**Author's Note:**

> Day 5 of October. It is 100% no longer the 5th, but I went to Renfest yesterday and was absolutely exhausted when I came home and couldn't concentrate on writing at all. So you get the 5th on the 6th, and if all goes well, you'll get the 6th later this evening.
> 
> Prompts of the day were: apple orchard, vampire, secret, swords, and moon.
> 
> This is set in an alternate universe version of Geralt and Regis meeting, where they meet before Regis gives up blood drinking. Mostly because I really appreciate good vampire content, but didn't want to step on the fact that he's a recovering addict in canon. A little more steamy than spooky, but I decided I wanted to leave it there instead of taking us into bad feels.

Geralt tracks the scent to the heart of a grove of blossoming apple trees just south of an abandoned village in White Orchard. The villagers who he’d taken the contract from hadn’t been all too forthcoming about what to expect, but from the little he gathered - blood drained corpses of humans and animals alike, monthly attacks on nights when the moon was notably full, garlic hanging from the doors of terrified townsfolk - it wasn’t hard to make the jump to vampires.

He’s expecting an alp, maybe a bruxa, and has come prepared with vials of black blood and a sword coated liberally in vampire oil.

The moon is hanging fat in the sky above him, moonlight filtering in amongst the branches, alighting on the dew-beaded grass. It’s a beautiful grove, trees with lovely thick trunks, fresh herbs growing in bundles at their roots. It’s a place he wouldn’t mind spending some time in, were it not for its sole occupant.

There’s a man standing in the clearing waiting for him, back turned in a way that instantly sets something in Geralt buzzing. His medallion is strangely, tellingly, silent.

“Witcher,” the man says, continuing his inspection of the tree. As Geralt watches, he reaches up and runs a long, clawed finger over one of the tree’s petals. It’s a strange, tender gesture.

“Vampire,” Geralt responds in kind, his sword already out and held at his side. He’s no cause to use it, yet, but it’s always best to be prepared.

The man seems to smile, the hint of curved lips on a shadowy profile, and then turns to greet him.

He’s tall, with sharp features, and a pale, pointed face. Wisps of gray hair fall upon a heavy brow, and his eyes are black as night. He’s dressed in surprisingly formal attire, doublet embroidered in silver and black, a pair of clean black trousers, and expensive dragon-hide boots. He isn’t what Geralt expected, and that makes him wary. This man is no alp. Likely not even a bruxa.

“You’re a higher vampire, aren’t you?” Geralt asks him, scowling.

The man rewards him with a smile, and a slight, mocking bow.

“My name,” he says, “is Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefrey.”

“That’s certainly a mouthful.”

“Mmm,” the man hums. “Quite. Most in my acquaintance prefer to call me Regis.”

“Well, Regis,” Geralt drawls, circling him carefully, gaining ground. Regis seems unconcerned, even amused by the behavior, turning slightly to keep Geralt in his line of sight. “Care to tell me what a higher vampire is doing preying on hapless villagers?”

“Did you know that full moons are a sort of holiday to our kind?” Regis asks, casually propping himself against the tree. He regards Geralt with dark, amused eyes that seem to gleam in the light of the moon.

“Can’t say I did,” Geralt tells him. “I’ll have to pick up a book or two.”

Regis’s smile widens. “Oh, you likely won’t find any mention of it there. My kind tends to be quite protective of our history.”

“So, this holiday. Let me guess - you raid villages and slaughter mortals.”

“Traditionally, yes.”

Geralt inches closer. “And you? You participate in this monthly ritual?”

Regis’s smile is so wide now that Geralt can glimpse the pointed teeth hidden behind narrow lips. He isn’t ordinarily afraid of the monsters that he hunts. Most would say that a witcher’s emotions are obliterated by the mutations they’re subjected to, which isn’t... strictly true. Muted, yes. Gone? Not entirely.

Fear has no place in a hunt. It leads folk of all sorts to make stupid decisions.

All the same, Geralt feels a shiver go down his back at the sight of those teeth. This isn’t some lesser beast to slay for a handful of coin from some village priest. He doesn’t know much about higher vampires, but he knows enough to realize that taking this contract may have been a very stupid mistake.

He blinks. Half a second of the darkness behind his eyelids, and when he opens his eyes again, Regis is gone.

Geralt raises his sword, eyes flitting between the shadowed chasms separating each tree. There’s a fine mist out tonight, curling among the tree roots.

“You don’t want to do this, Regis,” he calls.

“Don’t I?” Regis calls back, his voice reverberating around the clearing, seeming to come from everywhere. He laughs. “You don’t know me, witcher.”

Eyes still on the tree trunks, Geralt pulls a vial of black blood from his back pocket. He should have downed it before he arrived. It was a rookie mistake, one that might get him killed. If he’s just fast enough-

Movement, so quick that he doesn’t even see him coming, and then the vial is knocked from his hand and the vampire has him pinned to a nearby tree trunk, one hand around his throat, the other restraining his sword arm. Geralt’s other arm comes up, grasping at the creature’s shoulder and getting a handful of rich fabric, but nothing else comes of it. He can shove until morning and he’s willing to bet that this creature would still have him pinned.

Up close, Regis’s black eyes gleam like polished shards of dragon glass.

“None of that,” he tells Geralt in a quiet purr, steadily increasing the pressure on Geralt’s wrist. Geralt grunts, throat working under the creature’s palm, the bones of his wrist grinding uncomfortably against one another. He bites his lip so hard that the taste of iron explodes in his mouth, desperately trying to keep his grip on the hilt of his sword.

More pressure, more, until he knows that if he doesn’t let go, his wrist will snap. He gasps in pain, and slowly, reluctantly, lets go of the sword.

“Now that’s better,” Regis breathes. Geralt can feel the creature’s breath against his cheek, his lips. Geralt looks at him, eyes narrowed. He won’t go to his death mewling like a babe. He’ll face it how he always has, head on. Without fear.

Regis smiles at him, eyes drifting from Geralt’s eyes to the blood smeared across his lips, and then down further.

“My eyes are up here,” Geralt tells him in a dry voice, halfheartedly struggling against the vampire’s grip.

“Mmm, I know,” Regis tells him, eyes snapping back up to Geralt’s face. “They’re your most arresting feature.”

The hand around Geralt’s neck shifts, moving slowly up his jaw until it’s cradling his cheek, a parody of a lover’s caress. Regis closes the distance between them a bit more, until he’s holding Geralt in place with his entire body, chest to chest, hip to hip.

Geralt swallows when a thigh slips between his.

“See, I’ve had a thought,” Regis tells him, thumb stroking tenderly over his cheekbone, claws mere inches from Geralt’s eyes.

“And what would that be?” Geralt grunts, squirming against the body holding him in place. It does little to free him, doesn’t seem to do anything but delight the vampire who has a hold of him, so reluctantly, he makes himself stop. He’s a rabbit caught in a hunter’s snare. Squirming will only make it worse.

“I’m told that witchers are resilient things, practically monsters in their own right. Cut them up and they’ll be good as new within a day. Poison them and they’ll spend the night reeling, but they’ll come out of it otherwise unimpaired. What do you think would happen if I gorged myself on you? Would you expire like a normal mortal, or would you hold on by a thread?”

Geralt shudders when Regis leans in close, dragging his pointed nose over the fragile skin just to the right of Geralt’s jugular.

“Can’t say I’ve ever thought about it, really,” he gasps. His pulse is thundering, loud in his own ears, so he can only guess what it sounds like to Regis.

Regis glances up at him from beneath lowered lashes. “Has one of my kind ever fed on you, Geralt of Rivia?”

Geralt grunts, fingers flexing uselessly at his side, in the fabric of Regis’s shirt. “Couple of times. Didn’t go so well for them.”

“Ah yes, but you had your poisons in you then, didn’t you?” he asks, smiling wickedly. “They wouldn’t take more than a few mouthfuls before they would notice.”

The thigh between his legs shifts, a teasing drag that leaves him gasping. He closes his eyes and sets his jaw, breathing deep. He will not respond. He will not get off on this. He’s fucked monsters before, willing ones, creatures that did no harm. Succubi, werewolves, a couple witches. Never a vampire. Until now, he’s never met one who could pass as a convincing human for more than a minute or two.

“How many mouthfuls do you think I could take from you before it had some effect?” Regis whispers, lips against his throat. Geralt can feel the pinprick of fangs. “Four? Six? Ten? More, even?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Geralt murmurs, and Regis laughs.

“I would,” he agrees.

“So, why don’t you find out instead of boring me with all the details?”

Regis pulls away from his throat, far enough that Geralt can meet his eyes again. He swallows at what he finds there. Amusement, yes, but also hunger, brighter than the moonlight reflecting in his eyes.

“A taste, first, I think,” Regis says in a low, cool voice, and then closes the space between them.

Geralt had forgotten the blood on his lip, but he remembers it when Regis catches him in an open-mouthed kiss. It’s wet and bruising, and Geralt is responding before he remembers he shouldn’t, fighting back the only way he knows how with the rest of him indisposed. He claws at him, bites at him, and the vampire laughs when Geralt catches his plump lower lip between his teeth and bites down. Regis gives his mouth one last darting swipe of the tongue before he is pulling away.

There’s a flare of color high on Regis’s cheeks and his ears are distinctly more pointed than they were five minutes ago, the sclera of his eyes gone red.

“Can’t say I’ve ever been bitten by a human before,” Regis tells him, leaning close like he’s divulging a secret. “It’s a rather exhilarating experience.”

“I’m all for a repeat experience,” Geralt quips, eyes narrowed. “Lean in just a little and we can see if I can manage to tear off your lips before you rip out my throat.”

Regis throws his head back and laughs, the sound echoing in the quiet of the night. When he brings his gaze back to Geralt’s, his eyes are warm and amused, perhaps even a bit affectionate.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he asks, and leans in again, just close enough for Geralt to barely brush their lips together before he’s pulled away again. Regis hums, eyes once more dipping down Geralt’s body to where they’re pressed together. The thigh between his shifts again, this time slow and pointed. Geralt shivers a little, pushes into the pressure for a barest second before he gets control of himself.

Regis is smiling again, close-lipped, but his eyes are calculating.

“You are quite the interesting find, witcher,” he says. “I think I might even like you.”

“And I think that you’re about as interesting as a can of worms,” Geralt hisses, and immediately has to close his eyes and tip his head back when the press of Regis’s thigh becomes more insistent against Geralt’s cock, which has become unfortunately heavy in the confines of his trousers.

“I think that we both know how much of a lie that is,” Regis tells him, flashing him a knowing look before leaning in and getting a mouthful of Geralt’s throat.

Geralt groans, body tensing, but Regis doesn’t bite down. His mouth is soft and wet as he mouths at the line of Geralt’s throat, suckling gently, tongue darting out to wet the skin. It’s pure torture, instinct clamping down and preparing him for pain while the all too human part of Geralt is content to sit and enjoy the ministrations, his brain sending more and more blood to his cock.

“I won’t beg you,” Geralt tells him.

Regis hums around a mouthful of flesh. “I didn’t think you would.”

He nips, playfully, and the sharp reminder of teeth is not the cool surge of reality that it should be, just fuel to the already raging fire of lust.

“Fuck,” Geralt hisses, squirming. “Are you planning on eating me or fucking me?”

“Haven’t decided yet,” comes the response, Regis’s head still bowed over him. He is working his way down Geralt’s throat to where it meets his chest, nudging fabric out of his way as he goes. He’s wearing light armor, which Geralt supposes was his mistake, so when a distinct tear rips through the night, Geralt just closes his eyes and grits his teeth. The armor, ineffective as it appeared to be against a higher vampire’s claws, was expensive.

“Well, whatever it is,” he grinds out, “make your decision fast.”

“I don’t think so,” Regis tells him, and then lets go of his wrist, pulling back and away from him, quicker than a blink. Geralt stares at him, chest heaving. Regis flashes him a wicked grin, his mouth smeared red with Geralt’s blood. He is distractingly, upsettingly attractive.

Geralt swallows, mouth dry. He flexes his fingers, rotates his still aching wrist. He thinks about picking up the sword at his feet, but knows that Regis would be on him well before he could get it in his hands. He leaves it where it is.

“Change of heart?” he asks, squinting.

Regis chuckles.

“Hardly. I just thought that if a decision were going to be made, that you might appreciate having the chance to decide for yourself.” He smiles, gives another little mocking bow. “So, tell me, Geralt. Are we going to fight? Or are we going to fuck?”

Geralt hesitates, indecisiveness warring within him.

On one hand, certain death. Or nearly certain, at least.

On the other, possible death anyway, but one last chance to get off.

He sighs, leans back against the tree, and crosses his arms.

“I think,” he says, “That you already have some indication of which I’m going to choose.”

Regis makes a quiet noise of approval, and draws a step closer. “Perhaps, but all things considered, I think that I’d rather you say it.”

“All right, then,” Geralt tells him, eyes dipping down the vampire’s body in one smooth glance, cataloging the narrow hips, the lean chest, the place where his cock is just slightly visible, hard in his breeches. “I think I’d rather a fuck than a fight.”

“Mm,” Regis hums again, finally drawing within reach. He reaches out, carefully, human slow, and gathers Geralt into his arms, presses them together again, seam to seam. “How will you have me, then, witcher?”

Geralt thinks about it for a moment, then shrugs.

“Any way you’d like.” He grins, sharp-like. “_Dealer’s choice_.”

Regis chuckles, and looks at him, black eyes gleaming.

“In that case, then,” he murmurs. “I think I would like to see you on your knees.”


End file.
